


The Rose of Winterfell

by CoutureWriting



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF, AU, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Falling In Love, Love, Marriage, Married Couple, Romance, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-08
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 21:25:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1036565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoutureWriting/pseuds/CoutureWriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Stannis Baratheon won the Battle of Blackwater and took the Iron Throne. The Red Wedding never happened. After Renly's death, Mace Tyrell had his daughter betrothed to Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell. A oneshot about how Margaery and Robb adjust to married life. Spans quite a few years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rose of Winterfell

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thanks for deciding to read this. I hope you like it. I kind of got a bit of inspiration and then all this came out as word vomit that somehow made it into a word document. I've decided to put it up here.
> 
> As important as proof reading is, it is 4:53 right now and I haven't slept yet. So if you find mistakes, you don't need to tell me, as I'll be going through and cleaning this up when I wake. 
> 
> Um, that's it really. I hope you enjoy a little slice of what married life may have been like for Robb and Margaery.
> 
> I love getting your comments, so tell me if you like it/have suggestions/didn't like it. Cheers!

The heart tree was laughing at her, along with the rest of the realm. Stood before the weeping face carved into the Weirwood tree thousands of years ago, alongside her stony-faced future husband, Margaery ached for the warmth and beauty of Highgarden.

The vows were short and she said them as reproachfully as Lord Robb Stark’s were emotionless.

Despite the handsome cloak and the thick furs gifted to her by Lord Stark, she was chilled to the bone. She had been since the moment she arrived. There was no escape from the cold in the place, except the inside the castle, and staring at the bleak walls, she often felt even worse.

Her second wedding, and more than likely her last. After Renly’s death, her father had not hesitated in brokering another betrothal for her. As soon as it had become apparent that having a queen for a daughter would no longer be possible, he had set his sights on the unmarried Warden of the North instead.

 _Gods have mercy,_ she thought _, let my life here be a quick one._

Their vows finished, Robb stepped forward and kissed her cheek chastely. His lips were warm and not unpleasant against her raw, cold cheek.

~

Margaery was bored. Their wedding feast was a raucous affair, with none of the luxuries of a southern banquet. Her mother and father had not made the journey north, nor had her brothers. She was surrounded by strangers, none of whom seemed to like her, or if they did, they privately dismissed her as a silly southern girl whenever she spoke.

She and her new husband sat on a raised dais in the centre of a long table. She had a good view of their guests, and the mockery they made of themselves. Most were drunk, and those that were not behaved just as wildly.

The silence between them ongoing, Margaery peered sideways at her husband’s stony face, but found no smile there for her.

On her other side was Robb’s younger sister Sansa – a pretty, quiet girl with a sweet nature. Margaery knew that she had been betrothed to the bastard king Joffrey before Stannis had killed him and taken the city in the Battle of Blackwater.

His other siblings – Arya, Bran and Rickon – paid her little to no mind at all. It was as though anything foreign that arrived in Winterfell was best ignored, in the hope that it would, perhaps, go away. Sansa was the only one with a kind word for her, and even then, Margaery knew her words were more out of obligation than genuine regard.

There was a call from the back of the hall, quickly echoed by another one of her husband’s men… calls for the bedding ceremony. Margaery paled considerably, and cast a sidelong glance at Robb to find that he, too, looked uncomfortable, but he did not speak.

The hall erupted into cheers and toasts and suggestions. Margaery closed her eyes, in the hope that when she opened them, Winterfell would be gone and she would be back in Highgarden. But all for naught, for when she reopened them, the men were already heading towards her.

Wrenched to her feet and jostled about, one of the lords bundled her into his arms as the others began to tear at her gown. She shut her eyes tight as she was carried away, wincing as she heard the tearing of expensive cloth – her wedding gown had been labored over in Highgarden for weeks and had been the only thing she had liked about her wedding. She doubted there was a seamstress within a hundred leagues who could properly mend it now.

The men were shouting jokes and laughing amongst themselves. A few offered lewd suggestions and insinuations about what was to come when she reached the chamber. She was half tempted to stick her fingers in her ears to block out their voices, but she knew it would only encourage them.

When she was propped on her feet at the doorway of her husband’s chambers, stripped as naked as her nameday, she moved further into room and tried to preserve some of her modesty.

“Lucky Robb!” called Theon Greyjoy. “He will pluck the famous rose of Highgarden tonight!”

Margaery cringed inwardly, and turned her head away from them, but was forced to turn it back at the sound of the ladies jostling Robb into the room after her. A particularly excitable one ducked in and pulled Robb’s tunic – his last remaining item of clothing – off from his head and giggled madly.

“Show her just how hospitable the Northmen are, Robb!” yelled another lord, with a lewd laugh.

Even as the door was closing, they continued to shout suggestions through to them. When it finally was shut, Margaery could still hear them yelling in and squabbling amongst themselves.

There they stood, as bare as newborn babes, and regarded one another carefully. Robb’s cheeks had gone red beneath the auburn-brown stubble, and Margaery was still attempting to hold her hands in such a way that she might cover both her breasts and the juncture at her thighs.

“Are you all right, my lady?” Robb asked finally. “I know my men can be rough, especially when they’ve drunk away half of our cellar stores.”

The way he said ‘our cellar’ confused her. He had said it in a way that clearly meant _yours and mine_ , rather than _mine and my family’s_. They had been married only hours before, and he had not spoken a word to her since his vows.

“I am fine,” she answered him. She would not let her pride be wounded by whatever was to come. _You are a Tyrell of Highgarden_ , she told herself, _hold your chin high and do not let this man think you ashamed._

She placed her hands firmly by her sides, cast him a long look, and then marched determinedly towards the large bed. She slipped between the sheets and lay quietly.

Following her lead, Robb, walked quickly to the bed, all the while without meeting her gaze, and got in. They both lay there, as unmoving as stone.

Finally, Robb dutifully turned to her, and leant up to place a kiss to her cheek. Seeing her opportunity, she gently seized his face and brought his lips down to hers. He responded carefully, placing a hand around her waist and lifting her hips, ready for him.

When he opened his mouth to speak – perhaps to ask her again if she was quite all right, she caught his mouth in another kiss to keep the silence between them. Robb responded by groaning and pushing himself into her.

The whole affair was quick, but not unpleasant. Margaery was left breathless and warm when they collapsed together in a tangle of limbs. Robb pressed another kiss to her cheek, apologetically, as if he had quite forgotten his manners while the deed was being done.

Margaery felt his seed, slippery between her legs, and half wondered if she should wash, or whether that would be taken as an offence. Carefully, she slid out of the bed and pulled on a dressing gown, but when she turned, she saw Robb looked utterly confused.

“Where are you going, my lady?” Robb asked.

“I thought I had best return to my chambers,” said Margaery uncertainly. “So that you might get some sleep.”

Robb began to chuckle, and the gesture made his handsome face very pleasant. He smiled at her encouragingly.

“Did you think I would not wish for my lady wife to sleep with me?” he asked.

Margaery shrugged, uncertain now, and cursing herself and Robb. Her own parents did not share a chamber, except for when her father would briefly visit her mother, and she assumed it was the done thing. Perhaps her husband’s own mother and father _had_ shared a chamber together.

“Come here,” Robb said, gently. He held his hand out to her, and the crook between his chest and arm _did_ look somewhat inviting.

Quickly, Margaery returned the gown and crawled back into the bed, and arranged herself comfortably against her husband, whose body was warm and accommodating to the touch.

She shut her eyes tight so that she might avoid more talk, and fell quickly into an exhausted slumber.

~

Their guests departed quite quickly in the weeks following the wedding, returning to their own wives, families and lands. They bid them farewell and offered their best wishes to the new couple.

As she and her husband accompanied their final guests to the yard, a full month to the day since their wedding, Margaery felt a sense of relief that she might finally have a chance to become used to the castle and grounds, without them being full of her husband’s men, whose names she did not know, who treated her courteously, if dismissively.

The one they called Greatjon Umber clapped his hand on Robb’s shoulder. “Good luck, my lord. I hope married life finds you well the next time I visit.”

His son, who they imaginatively called Smalljon, bowed to her husband and wished them well.

Margaery stood stoic and watched the departing men. The gates of Winterfell closed behind them, and Robb looked somewhat disappointed to see the last of his men leave them.

“Robb,” Margaery started uncertainly.

“Yes, my lady?” Robb turned and gazed down at her kindly. “What is it?”

How would she tell him that it had been more than a month since she had last bled, and that if what she suspected was true, he was to become a father?

“I think I’m with child,” she said finally, and then peered up at him to gauge his reaction.

At first, there was no discernable emotion on his face rather than pure surprise, but then he broke into the widest smile she had ever seen in her life.

“Truly?” he asked.

“Truly,” she repeated.

Margaery almost cried out when Robb scooped her up beneath the arms, lifted her as high into the air as his own arms would allow, and spun her around until she was quite dizzy. He lowered her until she could clasp his face in her slender hands, press her forehead to his, and meet his ready lips with her own. 

~

They were still as cautious around each other as ever, but now when Robb gazed at her, there was affection in his eyes and with the news of his unborn child, a sort of glowing pride.

“Mother, Margaery is to have a baby,” Robb confided in his mother, three weeks after she had told him, now that they were absolutely certain.

Lady Catelyn looked pleasantly surprised at the news, and after she had recovered her composure, said, “It will be lovely to have a baby in Winterfell again.” She offered Margaery the first true smile since her arrival from Highgarden, a time that seemed so very long ago already.

~

Margaery was quite alarmed when she was woken by the babe’s first kick inside her, and sat bolt upright.

“Robb, wake up!” she cried.

They had never slept apart since their wedding night. Margaery had never made a move to leave his chambers since then, and some nights when he entered the room, looking quite weary, he brightened considerably when he saw her, sitting up in bed expectantly, ready to talk or to sleep or to make love.

Her husband awoke, his eyes lazy until she seized his hand and pressed it to her naked belly. They were silent for a few moments, until the babe obliged, and kicked out again against his father’s hand.

When Robb looked at her, there was such a beautiful look of bewildered pride on his face that Margaery was so overcome by the desire kiss him that she leant down and did so deeply.

When they broke apart, Robb reached out to touch a callused hand to her cheek gently. “I can’t believe we've made a baby,” he told her.

She smiled. “I cannot believe it either. I did not believe it until just then,” she said. She placed her hand back onto her stomach, but found no more obliging movement.

She settled back into her husband’s embrace, and met his gaze. “Do you think we will soon have a son or a daughter?” she asked.

“I don’t care,” said Robb, and she could see that he meant it. “As long as they are our son or daughter.”

As she lay there, her father’s voice rang out in her ears. _Give him sons_ , Mace Tyrell had said. _Give him sons to secure your place as Lady of Winterfell and to make yourself indispensable to the Northerners._

~

The moment the labor pains kicked in, Robb had refused to leave her side. As she was bundled into their bed – the same one where the babe had been conceived – Robb dutifully pressed a cool cloth to her forehead and did all that Maester Luwin bid him.

The labor was a hard one – hours and hours it took, until Margaery was sure that she would be torn in two – but Robb did not leave her side. She clutched his hand so hard she was sure she might break it, but he offered words of comfort and apologies and insisted that she could do it.

When she was finally free of the baby, relief flooded her, followed by a stone-cold dread. Why was it not crying? She struggled to sit up, and felt the wetness of the bed beneath her. She touched it with a hand and found her fingers thick with blood.

There was a desperate cry from the baby, and Margaery sunk back into the bed in relief, her vision hazy. She smiled to hear her child’s cries. Maester Luwin’s face loomed above her, clutching a swaddle of blankets. In a moment, his face turned from pleased to concerned, and as Margaery reached up to take the baby from him, it was pulled away from her and thrust into Robb’s arms.

“My baby!” she cried. She struggled to get out of bed, but her limbs would not move.

“She’s losing too much blood,” Maester Luwin said, and Margaery saw Robb’s face go cold.

Why were they being so cruel to her? She just wanted to hold her child. She tried to tell Robb, but her voice was little more than a croaky whisper.

She desperately tried to lift her arms to reach for the bundle, but her vision swam and then went black.

~

When she woke, Robb’s was the first face she saw. His eyes were dark with worry; tired, black circles framed his eyes and he looked as though he hadn’t slept for days. He immediately reached for her hand.

“She will be fine,” Maester Luwin said. He pressed something cool to her forehead, and it felt heavenly.

“Margaery,” Robb had said, desperately, brushing her hair away from her forehead and kissing her hand. “Oh Gods, I thought I would lose you.”

“Where is my baby?” she asked in what was barely more than a whisper.

“He is with my mother,” Robb said. He brought a cup of water to her lips but as much as she burned for the cool liquid, she pushed it away.

 _He_ , thought Margaery lazily. _A son. My son._

“Margaery, drink first,” Robb insisted. “Our son is healthy, and happy. Mother is bringing him now. But you need water, at the very least. You have not woken since last night.”

 _A day,_ she thought. _My son has been somebody else’s joy for a whole day._ Margaery acquiesced, and drank deeply. Robb refilled the cup once, twice, three times, until she had drunk enough.

There was a gentle knock at the door, and Maester Luwin quickly opened it. Catelyn Stark entered, clutching the bundle that Margaery had so desperately longed for. She placed it gently into her arms.

The babe inside was Stark through and through. He already had a thick dusting of dark hair, his eyes shut fast in a peaceful slumber. She brushed one cheek with the tip of her finger, and something inside her chest unfurled, and she was flooded with warmth and happiness.

She looked up at Robb. “He’s beautiful,” she said. “Has he a name yet?” she asked.

Robb shook his head. “I have not left your side. Names have been the least of my worries.”

Margaery smiled and touched the downy hair on his head. “I thought we might call him Eddard,” said Margaery quietly. She had known for months that if she had a son he would take her husband’s father’s name.

In the corner of her eye, she saw that Catelyn had begun to cry.

Robb nodded, and pressed his lips to hers. “Little Ned Stark,” he said, his voice full of equal grief and joy.

~

The day after, Robb told her that he loved her, and it was with great surprise that Margaery realised she loved him, too.

~

A few weeks later, she received a short note from her father, congratulating her that she had managed to give her husband a son, and that one day a Tyrell would be Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

Margaery only rolled her eyes and tossed the letter aside to tuck herself back in against Robb’s bare chest, and gently stroke a foot in wonder of the little boy that he held.

~

A few weeks after Ned’s birth, Robb led her through the grounds of Winterfell, his hands held firmly over her eyes. Finally, they stopped and he arranged her carefully.

When he removed his hands, she saw that he had brought her to the glass gardens. Only now there was a new greenhouse, and inside, it was utterly filled with blooming rose bushes and other blossoms she’d only seen the likes of in Highgarden. The smell was intoxicating, and stirred an ache in her chest for home. He’d placed an exquisitely built table and chairs inside, and a pretty rug covered in embroidered pillows where she might read if the fancy took her.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“Oh, yes!” she cried, and turned to cover his face with kisses tinged with gratitude and homesickness.

~

Their second child was born only a year and a half after Ned. This one was an easier labor, and Margaery had been determined that she be the first to hold their newborn child – a girl. Robb held squirming little Ned as Margaery clutched their daughter to her breast.

Robb urged her to give the girl a name from her own home, and Margaery decided on Aster, like the flower, which Robb had said suited her well.

“Aster,” he said, and smiled, as Margaery passed her to him. He gazed down at his daughter.

She was a pretty little thing. Much smaller than Ned had been, with a spatter of nut-brown fluff for hair.

~

“We have been invited to a tourney at King’s Landing for the King’s nameday,” Robb announced one morning, a short invitation from King Stannis in hand one morning.

Margaery looked up at her husband from where she watched her children play. Ned had just seen his fourth nameday, and Aster was a pretty, wide-eyed three-year-old.

“I am Lord of Winterfell!” Ned declared, knocking his sister’s doll out of the way.

“Why can’t I be Lord of Winterfell?” little Aster demanded.

“Because you’re a _girl_ ,” Ned said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Margaery shot Ned a warning look, and the boy reluctantly handed the doll to his sister with a murmured apology.

“Are we going?” she asked her husband, getting to her feet.

“I think we ought to,” said Robb quietly. “But I am reluctant to uproot the children and the entire household. But I do not wish to leave them behind either.”

The children looked delighted as Grey Wind padded into the room, and at once began to wrap their arms around the good-natured direwolf.

“I won’t go without the children,” said Margaery quietly. “They have never left Winterfell before – a trip to King’s Landing would be exciting for them.”

“I don’t think my mother or brothers and sisters will wish to come,” said Robb quietly, pressing his lips to his wife’s forehead. “But I don’t see any reason why we should not go with the children, if you think they would like it.”

Margaery nodded. “Are we decided then?”

Robb nodded, and placed a hand around his wife’s slender form. “We will go.”

~

In King’s Landing, Margaery found that she actually _missed_ Winterfell. They arrived, after a month of travel, to a lukewarm reception at King’s Landing.

Stannis Baratheon was said to be a serious, stern man, but Margaery felt that to be an understatement. She saw no smile grace his features, no warmth to his eyes and no love in him for his wife or child.

Having longed for the south for nigh on four years, Margaery was surprised to find that she felt no relief to arrive. Rather, she wished for the company of her husband’s family and their household.

Their chambers in the Red Keep were not unhandsome, but somehow the lavishness of them was lost on Margaery. As a girl who had been raised with no expense spared, it was strange now that she should miss the sparsely decorated castle where she now lived.

“You seem sad,” Robb had said as he pulled her close after they had made love in their new room.

She looked up at him and offered a half-hearted smile. “I am glad to be here,” she said, “but I fear you will laugh at me when I tell you that I miss Winterfell.”

Robb smiled, but did not laugh. He kissed the top of her head. “I had hoped against hope that you one day would think of Winterfell as your home. I knew it lacked the luxury and the beauty of Highgarden, and I dreaded that your resentment would outweigh any affection you felt for me.”

It was Margaery who smiled now. “Who could not love you,” she asked him, “when you are such an obliging husband and lover?” She ducked underneath the covers with a laugh.

“Oh, you are wicked,” said Robb, grabbing at her naked form beneath the covers, until she collapsed into uncontrollable giggles.

Her giggles quickly gave way to breathless moans when Robb showed her exactly what was done to wicked girls.

~

Her brother Loras won the joust and crowned a silly, blushing girl Margaery didn’t know as his Queen of Love and Beauty. She smiled privately to herself as he did so, knowing that he had absolutely no intention of courting the ridiculous little thing.

Robb won the melee with a fierce determination, beating men both taller and broader than he, and she felt a swelling pride in her chest when he took off his helm, marched up to her, swept her off her feet and kissed her deeply before the cheering crowd.

~

After a month of travel home and another of rest upon their return to Winterfell, Margaery promptly discovered that she was pregnant with their third child.

She had decided to wait until Robb’s nameday to tell him, but began to regret her decision as the feast and celebrations lasted well into the early hours of the morning.

When she finally had her husband to herself, tucked up warmly into the bed, his breath tinged with ale and his smiles and laughter easy, she caught his face between her hands and bit his lower lip.

“I have a nameday present for you, too,” she whispered, laying across his chest.

“Oh, yes?” he laughed.

“Yes,” she continued. “I’m going to give you another son or daughter.”

She never grew tired of the look that would overwhelm his face when she told him that she was with child. He was always just as pleased and excited as the day she had told him she was expecting little Ned.

He tugged her into his arms and kissed her until she cried for mercy. The foolish grin on his face was the funniest thing she’d seen in quite a while, and she laughed until her ribs hurt.

~

Their second son was born with an easy labor in the middle of the night. As with the births of their previous two children, Robb remained steadfastly by her side, and delivered their son himself under the guidance of Maester Luwin. It was he who declared proudly that they had a new son, and then had promptly placed the naked, bloody babe into her arms.

Once he had been cleaned up, swaddled and tucked into Robb’s arms, and Margaery was just short of drifting off to sleep, he asked her what she thought they should name him.

She smiled sleepily. “I did quite a bit of reading during my lying-in, most of it about the history of House Stark,” she confessed, “and I thought the name Torrhen a handsome one, if you like it, too.”

“Torrhen,” Robb repeated, and smiled. “I think it suits him very well.”

Robb continued to talk and croon to their son until Margaery drifted off into a pleasant, dreamless sleep.

~

Margaery watched on, holding a sleeping Torrhen, as her husband gifted Ned with an ornate wooden sword, just big enough so that he could wield it, for his fifth nameday.

As she watched, she saw Aster eye the weapon jealously and resolved to ask Robb that they might get her one for her next nameday, too, even if it earnt Margaery her mother-in-law’s disapproval.

“There, there,” she murmured, as Torrhen squirmed fitfully in his sleep. She stroked the bridge of his nose gently until he settled, and looked up to see Robb gazing at her lovingly.

“What are you staring at, Lord Stark?” she asked playfully. “Has a pretty, blushing maiden caught your eye?”

He laughed. “There is no doubt that she is pretty, but I do not think there is any chance she is still a maid.”

Margaery rolled her eyes and hit him on the arm when the children weren’t looking but it only succeeded in earning her a firm kiss on the top of her head.

“You’d better not do that, ser, my husband will be back at any minute,” Margaery said.

“Very witty,” said Robb sarcastically.

~

Their third son was born early, during a trip to Riverrun. Margaery went into labor during the night, and mourned the absence of Maester Luwin at her bedside. Robb held her hand, and his mother brushed her hair out of her eyes as she pushed.

Despite the hasty labor and early birth, he was born healthy and yelping, and the Maester set about cleaning him up.

“A son,” he said, offering the boy to her. “Congratulations Lord and Lady Stark.”

As she and Robb both peered down at his little face, they smiled the same loving smile.

“I thought we might name him Jory, if you like it,” said Robb after a moment. “He was Captain of the Guard for House Stark and taught me how to fight. He died in King’s Landing protecting my father.”

She gazed down at her son and brushed his cheek. “Jory Stark,” she said, and smiled. “I like it very much.”

~

Robb and Margaery sat together in their solar, surrounded by their children, as they did most evenings. She placed her head on her husband’s shoulder and watched them contentedly.

Ned, at seven, was now a reserved youth, with an even temper and a wish to act exactly like his father. Very much a stark, he had very dark, thick hair and appraising grey eyes. Aster, only a year younger had an easy grace and manner, was the perfect little lady under the guidance of her doting aunt Sansa. She had inherited her mother’s pretty brown curls and her father’s blue eyes. Torrhen, now three, was a happy child who desperately wanted to be included in his older brother and sister’s games. He, too, had inherited his mother’s thick, nut-brown curls, but also her long-lashed brown eyes. And little Jory, whose thick brown-red hair was exactly like his father’s, had just passed his first nameday. He was cheeky and mischievous, with a particular love for his aunt Arya.

“Do you suppose we will have any more?” Robb asked her, and she looked at him.

“I always imagined myself with more daughters,” she said thoughtfully, and then grinned up at him. “Why, have I not given you enough sons?”

Robb laughed. “Is it possible to have too many?”

“It is, if you like having a wife with a figure,” said Margaery playfully.

In truth, she was as slender as a willow, and had barely changed from the day he had married her, almost eight years ago.

“You know, when Ned was born, I really thought I was going to lose you,” he said quietly, taking her hand in his and holding it tightly. “I was scared that should we ever have children again after that that I might really lose you, but our children are healthy and so are you. And I always find myself thinking, Marge, is it possible to be _too_ happy?”

She frowned, and then shook her head. “The Gods, Old and New, have blessed us,” she said finally. “That is what I believe. That House Stark has been blessed.”

“Blessed,” he repeated.

“Of course,” she continued. “The day we said our vows before the heart tree was the day the Gods looked down on us and smiled.”

Listening to Margaery, he believed it.

~

“With child? Again?” asked Robb, and grinned when his wife nodded. It seemed as though he would never tire of the news. This one to be their fifth, Margaery prayed it would be a little girl.

~

And a little girl it was.

When her new daughter was passed to her, Aster peering curiously over her shoulder, Margaery felt the warmth of new love wash over her. She glanced at Aster.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I think she’s every bit as pretty as Jonquil,” said Aster, reaching out to place a finger in her sister’s tiny hand.

Margaery looked sharply up at Robb, and saw the same look on his face.

“Jonquil,” she said.

“Jonquil,” he repeated.

Aster looked up, disbelieving. “Oh, Mama, really?” And when Margaery nodded, she glowed with pride that it had been she who named her new sister.

And a pretty child Jonquil was. Her hair was ink-black and her eyes as sea-blue as her father’s. Pride blazed in Robb when he presented her to the rest of the family.

~

Margaery looked up from the letter she had just read, her eyes wide in surprise.

“What is it?” Robb asked, concerned. He was halfway to getting to his feet, but Margaery waved him back down.

“It’s just a shock,” she said. “Nothing is wrong. My brother Loras is to marry Princess Shireen.”

Robb said nothing, but Margaery pulled a blank sheet of parchment and reached for her quill, and began to write in a steady, ornate hand.

 _Dearest father_ , she wrote.

_What a surprise it was to learn that Loras is to become son-in-law to the King! I am left to wonder whether it was by his own design that the engagement came about, or yours. Please deliver my best wishes to him._

_The children are well. Jonquil is a healthy baby, and Aster is quite taken with her, as is her aunt Sansa. The boys can usually be found out in the Godswood arguing over who will be Lord of Winterfell, or chasing poor old Grey Wind around the grounds._

_Aster has taken to asking at least once a day when we might travel to Highgarden, for she is particularly adamant that she must meet her grandmother and great-grandmother soon. All of your grandchildren long to meet the rest of their family._

_Send word when you wish to receive us at Highgarden._

_Your daughter,_

_Margaery_

~

“Welcome home, my sweet girl,” her mother pulled her into a warm embrace and murmured the words into Margaery’s ear.

Margaery frowned, but kissed her mother on the cheek dutifully.

“And look how handsome my son-in-law is,” she continued. Robb stepped forward and kissed her hand gently. “You have kept him up North all for your own.”

Robb smiled, but Margaery sensed discomfort in his demeanor, most likely from the lavishness of everything around him. To Margaery, after so many years in Winterfell, it now looked gaudy and ridiculous. She reached for his hand and squeezed it.

“These must be my grandchildren,” Lady Alerie Tyrell exclaimed, as the children filed out of the wheelhouse after their mother and father. Their nurse held Jonquil.

Margaery greeted her father with a kiss to the cheek, and then each of her brothers – good-natured Willas first, then Garlan, and finally a sullen-looking Loras. Robb shook hands firmly with each of them.

They both turned to see her mother fussing over Aster, who looked very pleased. The sight of each of her rowdy children scrubbed to within an inch of their life and dressed in the finest clothes they owned made Margaery want to laugh. Grey Wind sat dutifully beside little Jory.

Sansa, where she stood, had completely ignored Loras in favour of Willas, who had greeted her warmly, and kissed her hand. A pretty blush rose in her cheeks as they spoke quietly.

Finally, Margaery spied her grandmother, and kissed the old lady upon the cheek.

“So this is the Young Wolf?” Olenna asked when Robb kissed her hand respectfully.

Margaery prayed that her grandmother would hold her tongue, but knew it was not very likely, so she quickly whisked Robb away, back to the children, and took Jonquil from the nurse. Her mother was quick to collect the babe from her and croon lovingly.

 _Gods,_ Margaery thought _, if my mother was any more broody I’d expect a brother or sister before the year is out._

“Let us go inside,” Mace finally said. “We have had a wonderful feast prepared for your arrival.”

~

“I’m sorry,” Margaery said as she crawled into bed beside Robb that night in her old bedroom. “I know my family can be overwhelming, especially when compared to the reserved nature of you Northmen.”

Robb smiled. “I particularly enjoyed your grandmother,” he said. “She has a very sharp tongue.”

Margaery laughed, and pressed herself against her husband through her thin nightgown. “I think your sister was very taken with Willas,” she mused.

She had watched them at the feast and had seen her good-sister hanging onto every word of her brother’s. He, too, had asked her many questions, which she had answered while he listened carefully.

“Do you think so?” asked Robb.

“Yes,” said Margaery. “Though I do not know who is more in danger of enchanting who. He appears just as taken with her. Well, she is a great beauty.”

“Do you think we ought to encourage them?”

Margaery shook her head. “They will figure it out in their own time,” she said. “And when they do, you must act surprised!” She punched Robb’s arm lovingly.

“Another marriage between Stark and Tyrell would only strengthen our bond,” said Robb. “I would be happy to see Sansa married if it was to a good man who loved her. And to think, she might be Lady of Highgarden someday.”

~

Margaery was not surprised to find that she was right. In Willas, Sansa had found a kindred friend. Her brother was a gentlemanly host, if a slow one due to his bad leg, offering to show her around the castle and grounds, taking her to markets and showing her the orchards.

By the time they were due to depart, a month after their arrival, Willas had promised faithfully to write to her often, and kissed her cheek.

When they returned to the wheelhouse, Margaery thought she saw tears in her good-sister’s eyes.

~

And they did write often, for more than a year, until Willas Tyrell rode North with his father’s blessing and asked Sansa to become his wife.

They were married in Winterfell’s little sept by Septon Chayle, the entire Stark family attending.

“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby see you these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon one another and say the words,” the septon said.

In unison, Sansa and Willas said the words.

“Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am hers and she is mine, from this day, till the end of my days,” Willas said, his voice stronger than Sansa’s quiet one.

The day they left Winterfell for Highgarden, Lady Catelyn cried.

~

On Jonquil’s second nameday, Robb was called away from Winterfell to quash a rebellion staged by Ramsay Snow after his father’s death.

Two weeks later, Margaery discovered she was pregnant again.

~

The Siege of the Dreadfort had gone on for months, and Margaery’s pregnancy was a difficult one. She was frequently ill, became very weak and was confined to bed by a worried Maester Luwin.

One evening when she had been particularly overcome by violent sickness, Margaery overhead the maester confide in Lady Catelyn outside her door that he believed she might not survive the pregnancy. He believed her asleep, and when he returned, she closed her eyes quickly, her tears hastily wiped away from her cheeks.

Day in, day out, she longed for her husband’s return. She knew that if only he was with her, none of it would be quite so difficult.

Arya or Catelyn would often sit with her, and would sometimes bring somber Ned or a worried Aster. Torrhen, Jory and Jonquil were often too boisterous for their mother, and Margaery frequently fell into exhausted sleep during their visits.

It was late afternoon, judging by the colour of the sky from her window, when she went into labor.

Maester Luwin sent Lady Catelyn to send their fastest rider to fetch Robb.

“I heard you talking to Lady Catelyn. I’ll die from this. And he won’t make it,” said Margaery quietly. “The Dreadfort is eighty leagues from here.”

“Then you’d better be alive when he does get home,” said Maester Luwin, but there was pity and concern etched all over his face. “I’ve delivered every one of your children, my lady. If you promise to stay with me we will do the same with this one.”

Margaery closed her eyes in pain as a searing pain shot through her body. She clutched the maester’s hand tightly.

“It’s because Robb isn’t here,” she murmured.

“He’ll be here soon enough.”

Hours upon hours the pain shot through her body, continuing on until well after the sun had set. It had to have been early morning when Margaery finally felt the baby coming.

She held Arya’s hand so tightly, she felt her good-sister wince, but she did not pull away. She pressed a cool cloth to Margaery’s head as she screamed in pain.

“It’s in the breech position,” Maester Luwin told Catelyn, his features written in lines of worry. “It's feet will come first. There’s a chance the cord could be compressed.”

Margaery felt panic rise in her body. She glanced at Arya to see wide eyes staring back.

There was a scattering of paws on the stone outside her door and she saw Grey Wind bound into the room.

The pain was terrible, but she tried to sit up. “Robb?” she demanded. “Where is Robb?” she cried.

A few moments later the door that stood ajar was slammed open and Robb stood in the doorway.

“We were victorious at the Dreadfort,” he said, his voice shaken. “Your rider met us halfway home. He said that Margaery was dying.”

When he saw the swell of her belly, his eyes widened. But they darkened with fear. He was at her side in a moment, Arya moving to accommodate him, and he took her hand.

“What is happening?” he demanded of Maester Luwin. “Why was I not told?”

“Margaery forbade it,” said Catelyn. “She did not want you distracted during the siege.”

“The baby is in the breech position,” said the maester, but at Robb’s confused look, he elaborated, “its feet will come first. There is a chance the baby may not be able to breathe if the cord is compressed.”

“And Margaery?” Robb demanded.

“It has been a difficult pregnancy,” Maester Luwin told him. “She has been kept in bed for months and she is very weak. The illness has been severe and I fear it has robbed her of all of her strength. I see no fight left in her.”

“Marge,” Robb turned on her, brushing the fair out of her face, his hand on her wet forehead. “Don’t you _dare_ give up on us. Not on me, not on the children. The Gods blessed us, remember? You _will_ live.”

But the Lord of Winterfell had begun to cry, as had Margaery. The tears ran freely in between her screams of pain and her writhing. He kept his forehead pressed against hers, as if willing his own strength to keep her alive.

The baby was delivered among Margaery’s screams of agony. She clutched at Robb, at the sheets and at her hair. When the cord was cut and she saw the baby in Catelyn’s arms, she seemed to go limp.

“Do something!” he roared at Maester Luwin, waving away his mother and the child.

The maester placed his fingers to her neck to feel a feeble pulse. “She still lives,” he said. He turned to Catelyn. “Can you fetch me milk of the poppy, my lady?” She nodded, passed the baby to Arya, and hurried from the room.

Robb pressed his head against his wife’s, his tears mingling with her the perspiration on her face. He whispered prayers into her hair and clutched her hands fiercely, as if he could hold her there if he held tight enough.

~

It had been hours since the child’s birth, and Margaery had carefully been given milk of the poppy but she still showed no signs of response. Every now and then, Robb would dutifully wring a wet cloth to her lips to will her to drink, but she showed no reaction.

Only Maester Luwin remained with him. Catelyn had taken the child to the nurse and Arya had gone to the children’s rooms to care for them if they woke up. Robb wondered if he should at least bring Ned and Aster to see their mother, in case there was no other chance, but did not think he would be able to cope with their fear and worry, as well as his own.

“If she survives—”

“She _will_ survive,” Robb insisted.

“—she will not be able to bear children anymore,” said the maester. “It will take months, if not years, for her to regain her strength. And if she was to get with child, there is no guarantee that this sort of thing might not happen again, and you lose her for good.”

Robb was silent.

“If—”

Robb made a noise in protest.

“—she lives through this, I will give her moon tea, to ensure that she does not conceive,” said the maester.

Robb nodded, but did not reply. Eventually, he fell into a fitful sleep where he sat, his head lying on his wife’s arm.

~

It was a week until finally, Margaery awoke. Her eyes opened to see Robb asleep in the chair beside her bed. When she opened her mouth to speak, she found her voice quite gone.

Water. She needed water.

Her limbs as heavy as lead, she pulled back the covers and stood on shaky legs, and gripping the dresser along the way, managed to make it to the table to where the jug of cool water sat. With trembling hands, she poured herself a cup and brought it to her lips and drank deeply.

The sky outside the window was black, millions of stars winking at her. She drank, and drank and drank, until the jug was completely empty, and even then, she was still thirsty.

But she found that she could now talk.

“Robb.”

He slept on, so she carefully made her way back over to him, and the bed. When she reached the chair, she clutched its back with a shaking hand.

“Robb,” she repeated, and this time he awoke with a start.

“Marge,” he said, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. She couldn’t help it, with the way he looked at her, as if she were the most precious thing in the entire world, she began to cry.

She saw tears at his eyes, too, and in a moment, she was bundled in his arms. He returned her to the bed, pulled off his boots, and slid in beside her.

She clutched at him tightly, as needy as a child, pulling herself closer to him.

“I thought you would die,” Robb murmured. “You were so weak.”

Margaery coughed, and the gesture wracked her entire body. “I was a Tyrell who is now a Stark,” she said. “I could never be so weak to give up without a fight. You should have had faith in me.”

“I have more faith in you than anybody else on this earth,” Robb said, “but that does not mean I don’t worry.”

“You were victorious at the Dreadfort,” Margaery said quietly.

“It hardly matters now,” said Robb. “I expected to come home and surprise my beautiful wife, but instead I was met halfway home by the blacksmith’s son, who looked half about to tear his hair out, saying that my wife was dying.”

Margaery closed her eyes. “What an embellishment of the truth, if I ever heard one. I was delivering a baby.”

“Yes,” said Robb. “A baby I knew nothing about. You obviously didn’t plan to tell me?”

Margaery frowned. “I thought a babe was the best victory gift I might give you. I did not want your mind unfocussed during the siege.”

Robb sighed. “My wife,” he said, “ever the martyr.”

Margaery smiled into his chest.

“Do we have a little son or a daughter?” she finally asked, peering up at him.

“Which do you think?” he asked.

“A daughter,” said Margaery. “I told you that I always pictured myself with scores of little girls. But knowing our luck with this one, I’ll bet it’s the brother that Torrhen and Jory wanted.”

Robb smiled. “A little girl.”

“A little girl,” Margaery repeated, then she smiled. “Have you named her?”

Robb grinned, and looked down at her. “Would you be terribly upset if we had?”

“Who is ‘we’?” asked Margaery.

“The children,” said Robb. “I asked them to choose a name for her. Would you like to hear what your daughter has been called?”

“I do.”

“Well, Ned and Aster, inseparable as they are, decided between them that she would be called Margred. But of course, Torrhen and Jory were not happy with such a sensible decision as that, and Jonquil cannot manage it, so they’ve been calling her Merry for short.”

“Merry,” said Margaery. “I like it very much.”

“Ned and Aster will be annoyed to hear you appreciate the nickname,” said Robb, with a smile.

“I’d be disappointed if they weren’t,” Margaery whispered. She closed her eyes and listened to the _thump-thump_ of her husband’s heartbeat appreciatively until sleep came.

~

When Margaery met her daughter the next day, she decided that she could not have picked a better name herself, for she had never in her life seen a happier baby.

“Merry,” she murmured, smiling to herself. She caressed her daughter’s downy brown hair and kissed her lovingly.

~

Just four months after Merry’s birth, Margaery received a letter from Highgarden.

_Dearest Margaery and Robb,_

_It is with great pleasure that we announce the birth of our child, a daughter; we have decided to call her Flora. We cannot wait for her to meet her dear cousins._

_We send our love and best wishes for Merry,_

_Willas and Sansa_

“It seems my brother and your sister have made an aunt and an uncle out of us,” said Margaery with a smile, and passed the letter to Robb.

She watched the smile spread out across his face, and met his kiss with a laugh.

~

A week after she turned thirteen, Aster came to her mother with bloody sheets and a stricken look on her pretty face.

“Torrhen saw, and he said you’re going to send me off to marry Robert Arryn now that I’m a woman,” her daughter said weakly, worriedly.

Margaery pulled the sheets out of her grasp and tossed them to the floor, drawing her daughter into an embrace full of love. She kissed the top of Aster’s brown curls.

“We would not dream of sending you to the Vale,” said Margaery quietly. “Do not listen to your brother. You know Torrhen and Jory like to tease. When you marry one day, it will be to someone strong and kind and loving, just as your father has been to me.”

Aster nodded and gazed back at her mother through plaintive blue eyes.

“Besides, we would not bid you marry Robert Arryn if he were the last man on earth, my sweet girl,” said Margaery.

With that, Aster finally smiled.

~

“How lucky we are,” Robb said to his wife, as they sat together at the abundant feast they had thrown to celebrate Ned’s fifteenth nameday.

His wife, still so beautiful, sent him a wry smile. “What an attractive family we have made,” she said with a chuckle.

They looked down to the table where their children sat, and Margaery felt the warmth of contentment flow through her chest.


End file.
